


unfold the passion of my love

by viorica (evewithanapple)



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/viorica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She had intended to sit the masque out. She had not counted on Orsino.</p>
            </blockquote>





	unfold the passion of my love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brigdh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/gifts).



Sometimes, she is Viola. Sometimes she is Cesario.

Behind this mask, she is neither, and profoundly grateful for it.

Masques, she has learned, are the custom in Illyria; for a populance that so respects courtly love and romantic entanglements, she is not sure what else she expected. The Puritanical court she was raised in had no truck with false flattery, nor with frivolous entertainments, so the masque is a strange thing to her sensibilities. When it is first announced, her confusion shows on her face, and Orsino had laughed at her naïveté _._

"A masque, my boy!" he's said, clapping her on the back. "We shall fashion ourselves as harlequins and disguise our visages with masks to the purpose of making good mischief.  Have you no costumes? Never fret; there is clothing enough in my wardrobe to dress the whole household, aye and the countryside besides.”

Orsino was as good as his word, and so Viola finds herself dressed in sumptuous clothes- intended, so Orsino says, to represent Jove’s cupbearer, Ganymede. Orsino himself, of course, appears as none other than Jove himself, splendid in cloth of gold and a mask that is studded with pearls and rubies. Ganymede is a simpler dresser, and Viola’s mask is painted but not jewelled. She is more than content with that, not wishing to draw any great attention to herself. On the contrary; the masque allows her a great deal of freedom, to move without being recognized as Orsino's pageboy and to let down the private mask she has kept up since coming to Illyria. She is no longer expected to be Cesario (as Orsino is the only one who knows of her costume) and no one knows her as Viola. The total anonymity her mask allows her is a freedom she has not felt for a long time.

Of course, she would rather avoid the masque altogether; what use does she have for celebration? Even without the grief of her brother’s loss fresh in her mind, she is happier without the crush of bodies, the heady atmosphere of perfume disguising sweat, the increasingly drunk guests who see Ganymede and think that he has come to service them, personally. So as the masque goes on, she retreats to the quietest corner she can find (which takes several attempts, as the first few are already occupied by couples who have decided that they do not wish to wait to retire to their beds) and observes the revellers from afar. It is a pleasing enough diversion; the court of Illyria boasts fine dancers and finer draughtsmen, and the guests cut pleasing figures. She is content to watch in peace until the dancers tire and return home to shed their costumes.

She had not counted on Orsino.

“Ganymede, my boy!” She feels a heavy hand come down on her shoulder and the duke’s hot breath on her ear, and turns. Orsino beams merrily at her through the purple-and-green mask the draughtsman designed for him. He looks not unlike a parrot. "Do the festivities frighten you so that you must hide in the corners? I thought to hold a finer festival than that!"

His hand is warm and heavy, and encompasses the entirety of her shoulder. It is not an uncomfortable sensation. "The festivities are entertaining indeed, my lord. I simply felt the need to rest after taking a turn on the floor." It's a flat lie, but he's unlikely to notice.

"Well then!" He moves his hand from her shoulder to her arm. "We must find a more restive place than this!" And he begins to walk, propelling her alongside him. It is all she can do to keep up with his strides. He pulls her from the ballroom, through the wide doors leading out to the gardens, and finally to the swan's-head fountain which makes up the centerpiece of the flowerbeds. Orsino has spared no expense in his preparations for the festivities, and the fountain is surrounded by garlands and candles. The candles, however, have not faired well; the ocean breeze has blown out all but a few, and they stand there in near-darkness.

"Ah, my Ganymede!" Orsino drops to sit on the fountain's edge, kicking off his boots. "I am a man of merriment, or so I was before fair Olivia spurned me; but this sedentary life I have led these past months has taken its toll on me. I find I cannot dance as I was accustomed to."

"Were you a fine dancer, my lord?" Viola can well imagine it; even after the sedentary months he spoke of, his thighs are well-shaped in his hose, his feet quick. Had she been bolder, she might have attempted to catch a glimpse of him on the floor, but she thought it best to defy her desires and keep herself away from him. As always, Orsino seems to have thwarted her plans.

"A fine dancer!" he scoffs. "Why, I could hold my own with the likes of Will Kemp himself. Had I been a courtier, I could have charmed the king and queen with my footwork. But alas-" he gives a theatrical sigh- "I was not made for such display, and my tenants needed me more than the court did. What a career I could else have had! As a seducer as well, for what woman could not swoon at the sight of a well-turned calf."

"I am sure you would have made a great spectacle," Viola says cautiously.  In the darkness, she can see that Orsino's cheeks are flushed red with drink, and she wonders how aware he is of what he says. She wonders how it is that he seems to pierce through to the thoughts she has never spoken aloud. Do they practice witchcraft here in Illyria?

"And men," he continues, rolling his shoulders as if ridding himself of a kink in his muscles, "men are as susceptible as any to my charms. There have been many who attempted to pretend that they do not look, but many more who have seen no shame in it. I admire those men. They have a refreshing honesty about them." His voice drops, becoing dark and rich. "Are you honest, Ganymede?"

Her breath is quickening in her chest. "As I can be, my lord."

"A political answer." Orsino claps her on the back. "You ought to be a courtier yourself, my boy. You have the wit for it."

 _I have the talent for convenient half-truths_ , she thinks. Aloud, she says "I am content where I am."

"Hmmm." He runs a finger down her arm, where the fabric of the costume ends and her skin is bared to the night air. She shivers in spite of herself. "Then you must tell me if you can be truthful here and now. Is my body pleasing to you?"

Her talent, so lauded a moment ago, deserts her. There is no half-truth she can tell to escape this question. "Your body must please any who look upon it."

His mouth hovers, again, next to her ear. "You must answer yes or no."

"Why then, I must answer yes." she breathes. She hopes that the darkness protects her from total exposure, of how her face flames and her chest heaves. If he touches her, she must surely come entirely undone, for how can she maintain the facade of Cesario when Orsino touches her as Viola? She will be discovered, and it will be the end of all things.

"Ah, Ganymede," he breathes, still caressing her bare arm. "It seems our costumes have proved prophetic." This, she thinks, is it. He is kissing the soft shell of her ear, and soon his hands will move to part her tunic and reveal the rough binding bandages beneath. She holds her breath, attempting to think of what she will say even as Orsino's touch drives all rational thought from her mind.

"My lord!"

The voice from the pavillion makes Orsino, and Viola let out a quiet sigh of relief. "What is it?" he shouts back, irritable.

"My lord!" the servant calls, approaching. Viola takes advantage of Orsino's distraction to slide away from him on the fountain's edge. "My lord, your presence is called for to bid farewell to Lady Alessa."

Orsino heaves a great sigh, and stands. Viola looks up at him the way she has not permitted herself earlier, taking in the ways in which his costume clings to him and reveals the shape of his body. "It seems," he grumbles, "that duty calls upon me." He winks at her. "Never fear. We will continue this conversation at a later date."

Viola hopes her smile does not tremble. "I look forward to it, my lord." As Orsino walks away, her hand drifts to the spot where his fingers had caresses her arm, hoping fervently that the drink will wipe away his memories of their conversation. Elsewise, she thinks, she has found herself in very deep trouble.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly certain that invoking Will Kemp puts this fic in some kind of bizarre metaverse. Er . . . oops?


End file.
